Sailing Boats
by malpractice
Summary: Post S7, AU. As insanity turns into simple instincts such as curiosity, Lisa Cuddy has yet to accept that if Gregory House is something, he's her own being.
1. Ghosts of Absence

Hi everyone. I guess I can say I'm new (so take it easy!) and please let me know what you think.

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, David Shore and his gang rejected me inside their little group. Suckers.

* * *

She misses him.

It's not questionable anymore, even less deniable. She misses him in a way she'd never missed anyone. Because even the thought of him can make her throw up. And it pains to breathe.

She misses him because she misses herself.

It's not rational, neither one of her platonic fetishes: it's a fact, dry as it is. The lack of his presence is simply entrenched with her being, so it's not even a void anymore, because a void could be filled. When she yanked him out, her flesh regenerated - as a mutation, a cancer cell. It's even ridiculous how someone could define you that much. It's pitiful.

She's not living, not really. She doesn't cry around and mourn if that's what you think. She exists. It gets easier when it turns into a schedule. You wake up (wishing you could sleep again), get up, get dressed, fix your daughter and life increasingly gets better until the little girl is gone and she's lonely like she'd never been. Work, smile, analyze. Get happy for your daughter, what kind of mother do you plan to be. Dinner, cartoons, maybe homework. Bed. The house turns silent.

You can't sleep.

The empty bed mocks the absence of his company. Come on, you can't possibly miss the guy who ruined your life. Ruined?

The word makes her think of roman empires turned to ashes.

She cries, but doesn't sob. It's merely a warm trace against her skin and tickles. Now that the anger, resentment, self reprehension and inner swear towards a masochist God have ceased, the tears are all that's left. Perhaps she just became attached to the knot down her throat.

At times like this she thinks about Stacy. How did she manage to get through with it and if she ever did indeed. During her husband's staying in PPTH, she'd been obviously haunted by memories. On the other hand, Stacy got married, got happy — moved on. Even when he didn't. Even when he was still loyal.

What does it say about them, however? She knows for a fact he didn't keep loyal, even though she believes his encounters after their break-up were strictly physical. He got married. Did he get happy, like Stacy?

Could everyone just... _Move the fuck on_?

It makes her question if it was all real. Every cell of her body is sure it did, but still. Endorphins etcetera, etcetera. And she thinks about sex.

That's when it all comes crumbling down. Taunting memories so vividly she can feel, hear, _taste_ — her devotion to the love of her life hasn't changed, deep down. He's still her most profound, darkest wish.

Her dirty little secret, the love of her life (potayto potahto)—

She wonders if she was the one of his.

A quote she read somewhere pops into mind saying that in the end, there's only two ways of dehumanizing someone: by dismissing them, or idolizing them.

She succeeded at both.

By the time she reaches guilt, the clock ticks. A message: You exist. You wake up (wishing you had slept), get up, get dressed, fix your daughter and life increasingly gets better until the little girl is gone...

_Mommy, why are you sad?_

* * *

Inaction lasted some time and depending on perspective, maybe lingered long. It's an information she kept in the back of her head during restless hours — _don't think about it don't think about_ and focused so much on repeating the mantra, at least she didn't think at all. A location, a destination — an auditorium.

The world, monochromatic moments ago, crude and motionless, the inert existence, _scheduled_; it is not gray anymore she sees.

Everything is red: blood and pulsing heart, the sole of her shoes, the nature of her lips. His raw voice. On the screen, a red muscle, she guesses the _triceps brachii_ but doesn't care. The name even disturbs her because Latin makes her think of him.

Dr. Gregory House is a teacher and as a stranger student she's in love with him already.

Not that what he's saying doesn't matter, since everything he says is loaded with meaning, certainty, coherence. Even his lies are scientifically proved. He's pushing the fascinated students to look through the muscle, see what he sees. _Beyond_ - where the connection holds the diagnosis.

In the meantime, she dissects him, guided by his advice of x-rayzing what your human capacity allows. Look, see, admit — and look again. There's that glint in his eyes, the harsh tone whenever a student speaks something ridiculous. Self-conscious, she's ecstatic, nearly happy. Her cells regenerating, multiplying — a reborn.

Lisa Cuddy is the best apprentice he would ever have. For the reason only, that she did not learn his lessons but contested it. Improved it.

Well, at least until she didn't engage the debate anymore and his philosophy became superficial. Lacking substance. Socrates would have been nothing without Platon.

House hates the job, yet appreciates the dialogues it induces, she can see. It pains her that he didn't even put efforts on trying to practice medicine again; the knowledge that being a teacher was only an economic necessity not absent in her mind. He did as well as he could, as far as the circumstances would allow. First she heard about him working on research somewhere, until Yale put eyes on him, an offer he couldn't refuse. A legend in a legendary institution. On the surface, it sounded simple — yet due to fame and past actions, it was known that one strike he was out.

So far he was still in.

The supposedly best minds in the world were the ones privileged enough to be offended, humiliated and dismissed by the best mind itself, until they would prove otherwise. If Cuddy could guess anyone capable of expanding the brain of those kids it would be him.

She feels valued, while sparks of jealousy emerges within her in contrast. She misses him. So fucking much.

It's not a visit though; merely an analysis, a walk through her museum, an old photograph. All so she could stand up, leave unnoticed and have this image of him stuck in her dreams: untouchable, unreachable, _right_. Because for the past months what flashes before her eyes at the very resemblance of him, it's not the man holding a hairbrush in front of her wrecked house, but the lost little boy she left at the entrance of his.

Nothing excuses him, yet anything acquits her either.

She spells it proudly: The love her life; doesn't mean they will be together.

Class dismissed, students stood up as she kept down, misplaced and errant. Too soon, but it's time and how it works, the programmed human creation, always counted — 12 chimes in 2 rounds. Firming her heels on the floor, she goes to follow the wave out.

Not so fast.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy." A voice, loud so she couldn't ignore; a stare she feels deep at her back.

A voice, real now because is saying her name.


	2. Silence is an International Language

Ow! Awesome reviews. Thank ya'll so much (HuddyGirl, Abby, azes, lenasti16, OldSFfan, princessariellover876, IWuvHouse and Guests). You rock.

**A/N:** Details such as timeline etc will soon be revealed.

* * *

_Ad sumus_.

And she uses the Latin because she turns around on her heels once closing her eyes as if it would make it all go away. He stands. Gregory House remains tall after the catastrophe that is both of them combined.

Blue met blue; heterogeneous, yet they still match. Her pumping pulse is just a reminder that here they are, alive, mattering. That with him she can finally be herself, if he's still his own.

Seeming unaffected, Greg House watches as she downs the steps and approaches him near the desk, since closing the distance sounded the most plausible action that could follow. Words were at a loss; her presence, though, spoke millions.

At this location she can oversee farther — acknowledge the amount pain and lack of sleep. If prison has done him any good, it's not at sight. Her hands are trembling, nerves an electrical dead short — she wonders if he can read her inner teenage novel.

That similar to 20 plus years ago, none could ever replace him. It was absurd; therefore he wouldn't value it.

To her agony, his book remains unintelligible.

"I'm pretty sure they have cameras here, so you can't claim I kidnapped you." House says.

A blink of an eye, a hold of breath: her muteness makes a quizzical eyebrow of him go up.

She feels herself being scanned and there's no fear, no panic — it's a need to be comprehended, to be saved.

_Help me._

His eyes darkening is all his control let pass through. Self consciousness highlights the fact that she is skinnier, older, _opaque_. The fear of rejection makes her want to hide as a fact thunders inside her soul's ear telling they're no longer young. If only a different university could change everything.

After swallowing, her voice is a mirror cracking. "I was curious."

"Ever heard of it killing the cat?" It's his instant reply.

_I need to know _(if you and I can work).

The silence is their palpable irony, saying more than they ever would. It lasts as stares are held.

Cuddy is scared to open her mouth and define the future with what might be revealed. Definitiveness is the worst scenario on the table — one House accepted while Cuddy considered it'd already been set.

"I'm peachy, see?" He opens his arms wide, clear discomfort amid sarcasm. It pleases to see some sentiment, even though is a tool to push them further apart. "And as I try to make my way through this ordinary world, I will learn to survive." Comes the recitation, mockingly wise, but House is not amused and Duran Duran only takes them back to the eighties when he fucked her the entire night like he loved her; a promised call, an abandoned undergrad.

One ancient night that would define any following other.

Revelation is muttered blankly. "I wanted to see you."

His eyes alight and inconvenient muscles of her body instantly turn to rock. He hides the surprise, even though he's aware it was witnessed. She confessed, took the first step — always her, imposing, dictating the timeline. Maybe it was a defensive wall she built based on the guy who never called, he's not so sure he wants to know.

So they stand in his metaphorical bathroom floor again, she blurting something poetic while he's completely lost without the logic he cannot reach. Once you lose your brain, your heart perhaps keeps going — if you stop your heart, though, the gray mass doesn't matter.

It's broken, whistling shyly, but his heart is there.

And as long as it beats, the mass still questions,

"You thought I wouldn't see you?"

Rational, clinical — he trusted his instincts once, ones that he would come to confuse with resemblances of a soul, and the likelihood of such misguidance happening again is low. Analyze the facts: was she ignoring his gift of accurate perception in order to dismiss her own?

Where's the coherence of her, being _here_?

Chaos is a world without answers — or possibly just the unquestionable.

Cuddy seals her lips, her eyes widening as she struggles for words - not a defendant confessed, but a protected witness. It was a narrow possibility of passing unnoticed, yet she didn't know if invisibility was her real aim since the start. The platonic lover and egomaniac part of her could never picture a return to the safety of home without him at least laying eyes on her, understanding that she's still breathing.

She shrugs, leaving it for what it is.

For a few more moments she is reverted inside out, undressed and sensitive by the ability of his stare. Then, it's whispering, a little boy. "Kay.",

...

"This is the part where you leave. So we can avoid the awkward side by side walking till the door."

Nothing he receives so the mockery is insisting,

"Seriously, I'll just pretend I have to finish something with the laptop—"

"House." Her voice interrupts and now he's not only lost, but scared. It shows from the flicker in his eyes to the up and down of his Adam's apple. A step of a heel forward was given; the uncertainty of a _Manolo Blahnik_.

She wanted to make him stop talking when she herself couldn't speak. Just give it a second. Just think this through. Einstein above Shakespeare, right? Yeah.

A deep breath.

"I was going to grab a bite." It's what comes out. He didn't read between the lines because an existence _between_ is surreal in the least. Perhaps he's hallucinating again.

He'd be fine with that, it's a thought before Lisa adds:

"Maybe you could join me."

Through her electric mind — a gray mass a little less active than his — there's only one particular language giving the verdicts:

_Carpe the fucking diem_.

* * *

**A/N:**_ Ad sumus_ in figuritive works as "here we are". That's what my philosophy teacher told me anyway.


	3. Biography

When Greg was a little boy, John House taught him an unspoken lesson: tension needs to be relieved.

If you're mentally healthy, the tension will probably be released as some sort of sport, a critical writing, hardcore sex — hopefully not spanking your son because of the simple absurdity that it's considered his weakness. Son Greg, repressed since the day he was born, evolved his father's tool to one that would fit his own intellect; understanding, that the psyche controls the pain, and therefore, the most powerful device to hurt a human is not by violating their body. It's the mind that controls it all.

Gregory House's singularity was not an artistic creation of Father John. Ignoring the gene subjects, think of it as the irony of the universe, a laugh of the Gods: the boy that questions it all, defies, analyzes, _dissects_ — forced to be raised in chains of militarism. "Watch it, _boy_" John House used to say and rebellion always took over, recklessness already an automatic response. But no matter what; if he was fucking a chick at the back of his first car, or getting a diagnosis right when the entire divinity of life tried to prove him wrong; he'd always feel like that boy, the false progeny being watched by a Marine pilot.

I'm no one; I'm no _one's _— the truth ultimately implied. He didn't have nothing to lose and so the circus began. The constant transferences made high school superficial and hard, although as his body got stronger and hatred stuck further to the bones, he'd be forced to admit that his alleged father prepared him for whatever it was that made all teenagers feel so deeply, give so vehemently. And not mentally healthy himself, Gregory House needed to spit the anger before he'd suffocate — to free the tension, he chose it all.

Do sports, get high, get drunk, screw around, destroy erroneous beliefs; it was the only way to keep going. He was unstoppable. Invincible.

No wonder college came easy. The feelings were always the same – a girl's hot cunt, the strength of his throw, the loudness of a party. They were all at his mercy, under his control.

Until he met her.

The sun didn't shine and the stars didn't align. She had a nice rack and nice pair of eyes: a very good potential exercise, which maybe would keep him distracted for a couple of hours. She didn't look his direction, she didn't say a word. When the professor asked if Lisa Cuddy was present, a petite hand was raised. A syllabus and some words at the library brought an insight to his mind.

She didn't do anything, but until he met her he'd never wish he wasn't haunted by John House. She didn't do anything, but she did make him want to move on. If only.

_Are you gonna use all three pens or can you borrow me one, _he had said and her lazy beautiful eyes glanced back with a dare and a joke, but before he'd get the chance to win their little silent game the pen was on his table and he was facing her raven hair again. The moment he asked her if she had studied for this _thing, _no reply was received besides the clock announcing they could start writing — though somewhere in the middle, her body leaned to the right and her test (written in strangely large letters) got very noticeable.

An _A-_ and a few beers later, the lazy mysterious eyes were now painted with black eyeliner and he internally named it the _fuck me eyes_, a request Greg would live up to it. He was nervous, and for someone that was never nervous things could go very bad, yet little Lisa Cuddy With Fuck Me Eyes gave him that smile and boy, he'd just said some bullshit about liking her dress and her eyes (and her breasts, he added, a possible aggressive comment to cover the glint of discomfort). Next he knew he'd asked her if they could _please_ get the hell out of there and with the promise of his jacket over her bare shoulders they made it out of the party, never once kissing, never once touching the way they craved. By the time she mentioned her apartment was closer with that raspy (Fuck Me) voice of hers, adding _I Got_ _Beer_, Greg thought that maybe, just maybe, this girl was as fun as he was thinking — and perhaps she'd give him a chance to fool her he wasn't that bad himself.

With her it was different, not because of the way he fucked her, but the way _she_ fucked him. Whatever it was that he'd give her, she was taking — as her eyes kept changing colors and speeches, as her mouth kept singing and tickling, somewhere in between it got stated that Lisa Cuddy was by far the best, the plus, the something more. She did absolutely nothing, since they were equals, toe to toe, and especially, _flesh to flesh_.

When they finally got to close their eyelids and stop devouring each other, the sun was rising and honoring the universe's cruel truth, in the morning after, everything changed. She slept soundly like he was sure he'd never had, which is probably the minor reason why he touched her exposed neck with his lips after waking up. She stirred and shifted and moan, the Adorable Cuddy, the undergrad and it was for her that he asked her number. _I have this stupid training starting in about two minutes, _Greg said, dressing up and watching the way sleep took the best of her again. _Come on, sleepyhead, focus here _and when he was close enough, she pulled him into a sloppy, messy kiss that made him wish all the kisses of his life, trust me, it was _plenty_, had been close to this one. It took him a while to get the number out of her, and in the wake of another kiss the say came, a say that would delineate it all:

"Just in case, my training ends at 2."

An invitation that he wouldn't finish, though looking at her he was sure the message got through. Crossing the small living room with flashbacks of the previous night putting a goofy smirk on his lips, Greg House was already stupendously late for lacrosse. If destiny taught him something, was that you never really know what you're doing. And Greg knew nothing. If he didn't have an appointment that morning, or if he'd had sex with her once more like he'd wanted to; if only a single part of that sunrise had been different, he wouldn't be home the exact moment the phone rang, and John wouldn't have been right all along.

He knew in an alternative universe, the promise of a temporary escape with a bottle of the cheapest vodka at a trashy bar would have been too tempting — the plan always to relieve the tension so perhaps you can come up with an actual plan. Hours and drinks would fly by until the strain is still there and it's not to the point of taking another girl home that he thinks of Lisa Cuddy, and if anything wants to have extraordinary sex with her, not mediocrity in some girl's blowjob. Stumbling through the streets, he wonders if she'll take him horny, needy, failing. Because the girl is obviously a winner and let me emphasize this, _winners do not lose_. Since we're projecting a believable circumstance giving the two fucked-up characters that we got — his drunken mind is enough to make the decision and Greg is knocking at her door at eight o'clock, but to him it seems that this little visit would be much like a middle-of-the-night-hello. Her eyes (he's way dizzy to name them right now) took him in and quickly prepared, he notices, a silly smirk insisting to perpetuate his mouth.

"Let me just tell you this, I'm gravely drunk."

A door is widened, metaphorically and not. Reaching the sofa he goes on and on about those jerks, shitheads _corpse-fuckers_ on the board of the University and somewhere in the middle of all that, it is mentioned he's expelled, yet Lisa remains silent the entire time.

It's probably a long period up till she touches his arm and interrupts him mid sentence with the mention of his name. Blue locks with blue, a buzz of a whole different kind.

"I'm sorry you were expelled." Lisa simply says.

A beat.

Right then it's the catharsis, the metamorphosis; a moment between the birth of a life and the cry of a baby, the pick of adrenaline right before your car crashes or you orgasm — it's raw emotion changing substance. A brutal kiss will follow her say and he's so overwhelmed with sentiment that he's trying to force it into her, to expand the superficial of flesh. To convince it mattered since he felt it did.

Pressing over her body, a gift of Heaven is her oversized T-shirt that gives him access to her cotton panties and Greg House, the legend, the guy who would never own a pen, the lacrosse star, the biggest jerk of all times who could manipulate the entire planet with the depth of his eyes; she might be a silly idealistic undergrad but one thing she knew: Gregory House mattered. And not just because moments ago he took her from studying to rocking her hips against his hand, but because nothing else could ever really matter when he was around, and right at that thought she comes loudly on his fingers. When reality takes her back, he's deeply asleep on her torso.

So a hangover and an awkward breakfast later, the love story began. It's not pretty, but at least it'd be real.

In an alternative universe he wouldn't have left Ann Arbor that day to never look back.

And decades later he wouldn't have said no to Lisa Cuddy and her dinner invitation that night.


	4. The Tuesday of The Third Week

This is just an essential transitional chapter. The 5th should come asap. Though you guys were royally disappointed, I promise better days shall come. (OldSFfan, Abby, azes, lenasti16, Guest and sweetsaucy thank you so much!)

* * *

The thing is, her appearances did not end. During the following week, she was there, attentive, as if playing her younger role in Michigan. Before he could think of any reaction, though, she'd hurry to leave as soon as the class was finished. Without persistence. Without a word.

Presence.

It was like being constantly watched when she wasn't even in the room. At any moment, her image could appear and his track of thoughts would be gone, causing his sanity to be doubted (even more). It pissed him off— just like in those old days back in Princeton, when she was nothing but a memory, buried deep down so it wouldn't combust into uncontrollable flames.

A fluorescent elephant right in the room. Announcing failures and unrequited loves; mocking his appearance, his current status, his everlasting attraction. His wish was not be anonymous, though the thought of being what he really was, for her, is nothing but horrific.

And maybe that was the whole point. Never ever letting him forget, intoxicating every hope of nonexistence. Because if he could forget, his crime would never be properly paid — the Clockwork Orange side of the story demanded him to be restructured, to act accordingly. So she would fulfill his punishment, as a silent watcher.

(that because he's not a strong believer of the conspiracy theory)

Lisa Cuddy showed up sporadically and her renewed schedule would be vigorously followed if it wasn't that Tuesday of the Third Week.

First of all, he was wearing blue and so did she. Perhaps starting to accept her mid-life crisis or whatever the hell it was that caused her reappearances, House allowed his eyes to remain over her longer than usual — and blue globs darkening and weighing, once he fell back into reality he slightly, very slightly blushed.

Contracted muscles of her abdomen made her cross legs tighter the entire time. Yet, Professor House was stolen from the class as a particularly annoying student showed him a scan and wasn't scared to be wrong, _repeatedly_. So while the pair debated eloquently (House was mostly insulting), the rest of the students found themselves having an atypical spare time.

And on that Tuesday of the Third Week, a spare time to the girl next to her meant... Gossip.

"Are you his wife or something?" Cuddy heard — a moment or two to realize the question was directed to _her_.

Her lungs filled with air as she turned to this nosy, fake plastic boobs Barbie. "Excuse me?"

Barbie shrugged. "You're obviously not a student."

Right there was anger — a bull enticed by a red flag —, inexplicable (yet well sensed) jealousy, and a primitive desire to _roar_. A territory not only marked, but infertile for any other species.

It made Cuddy wish to still be able to say that no, she was _not_ a student, she was his badass boss and the lover he goes back home every night so they can screw each other senseless.

Instead, what came out was a dry "I'm not his wife."

And yet it seemed like she had had vows that were broken without a second thought.

In case she had to pick a box she would have no choice but to mark the _something else_. The sacrilege of their union is the sacredness that sustains the commitments of the rest of the world. If Cuddy wasn't a sinner, Gregory House sure made her want to be.

However, the Viking tale does not end right there. Apparently satisfied, Barbie went back to her business with another participant next.

And so it began,

"God, I swear that when he wears that shirt I can't even understand what he's saying."

Girl number two (which Cuddy didn't dare to look and therefore, couldn't quite name) replied. "Did I tell you that my father went to college with him? He was a legend. He played guitar in a band and all."

Deep breaths, Cuddy thinks. She wasn't that retarded at college, but at some point she _was_ retarded over Gregory House.

(She was also very retarded under him, for that matter)

Playing on her lips there was a smirk, before Barbie's voice whispered again — somehow with the ability of depreciate whoever she spoke to. "Of course he plays the guitar. I've seen the size of his hands…"

Giggles.

"Wrist to little finger, _right_?"

Or the L shape between a man's thumb and point finger, or the size of his shoes, his height, race, deep voice — everlasting fictions to calculate the potential behind a pair of jeans, a grown-up pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; all which, _so happens_, to characterize Gregory House's physical assets. Her good fortune aside, Cuddy very well knew that this was merely stupid guessing techniques. And when this chapter reaches its end, telling what happen on that Tuesday of the Third Week, you must not get this in the wrong way. Our lead character wasn't a teenager anymore and measuring power with two stupid adolescents does _not_ get her off.

But nothing in the whole wide world could make her leave a nosy egomaniac student thinking she was somehow superior than Gregory House's _something else_.

The decision was already made when came the time for House to glance at his watch and address the rest of the group. Asking — forcefully rhetorical — if anyone else needed to _waste his time_, no eye was ready to see a perfectly manicured hand lifting.

What probably did make the silence inhumane was the astonished expression on House's face.

No, no eye and no ear were prepared for it when Cuddy asked:

"Excuse me Professor, but my colleague here" her hands presented Barbie "would like to know if the distance between the human wrist and little finger actually _do_ correspond to the size of a man's penis?"


	5. Enough with the Foreplay

She shouldn't have done that. House not so subtly told her so, as the confused class went away.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Oblivious was the word to describe his demeanor, though. All of his material was being put harshly into the backpack, a scheme to run as fast as he can, less unharmed than he already is.

Yet he makes the mistake of glancing at her again, only to see pleasant expressions residing on her face. She's content with her little spectacle earlier, not the slightest bit sorry.

She wants to _laugh, _yet he doesn't know it's because she's nervous as hell. She hadn't been House for _a long time_.

She smirked while he glared.

"If you're trying to make me lose my job, I'm pretty sure there's a more effective way to do that."

"Like you could get fired because I, very slyly, humiliated a stupid student of yours."

The heavy backpack goes up his shoulder. Piercing blue eyes makes her automatically retreat and prepare for the blow. Past has taught her lessons impossible to forget — when once upon a time, she had been the scientist of Gregory House's body language. It comes in handy, once in a while.

"You couldn't, if she wasn't the daughter of one of the richest guys in the country. And if you were actually a student, not some amateur criminal who dodges college's policy."

Cuddy swallows. The probability of her irresponsible antics costing his job was low, yet the message was quite clear: he couldn't afford the danger.

The metaphorical prison hasn't finished.

Half of the world would applause it, because for the universe to be right, damage, pain and elation should all be balanced; inch to inch, karma must work. Justice is doomed to happen — no matter the amount of guilt surfacing during the process.

What sick reality is that where House lives chained in?

For every fault, a punishment, as if all reasons are equal, all humans identical. In a military world as such, there's no room for mistakes and therefore no room for resurrections. If actions matter, circumstances, emotions, past: it should all be considered.

Excuses _do_ influence.

Fairness has nothing to do with flawlessness. And if House understands it, why does he insist on the chastisement whenever the contrary describes his actions?

Within his exhausted voice she hears the corpse of screams — of a boy shaking inside a tube full of ice, of a man seeing his leg grotesquely injured. He's giving up, she thinks. A little voice tells her he had long ago.

"What are you doing, Cuddy?" He asks.

All honesty, with a whisper and a shrug. "I don't know."

Ungraciously, he motions to leave, the anomaly of a passive aggressive Gregory House. Preventive, comes another question,

"Don't you think we need to talk?"

He shook his head no. "There's nothing to talk."

"So you've never thought of anything to say? Never once?"

What she sees is anger, at her inquires and stubbornness — the flush on his neck and darker shades of blue in his gaze is enough to let it be known.

As a contrast, his voice is cold, scarily composed.

"What's the right answer to that? I'm sorry I drove a car into your living room and took off? Or maybe just let you know the depths of my misery, so you can laugh later at the comfort of your house?" Cuddy goes to interrupt, though he cut her off. "Why don't we do this, Cuddy, you tell me what it is that you want, and I'll do it if that means you're disappearing."

Unaffected heels move further, closer. "I don't know what I want. I want closure. I want to understand. I want to..."

Their gazes met, as for the moment he shrinks the attitude, seeing her at a loss for words. A familiar urge takes over then, as if something very subtle sparks — the necessity to rationalize, Plato's methods for her to reach the answers on her own.

(Harshly)

"Understand? Understand that I was high, crazy? Does it change? Huh? Do you really feel better when you are _understanding_?"

It does not go unnoticed the way he's patronizing her. Giving the facts, she should turn around and leave, not insist on her chase. Except she's not hunting and she does not leave. For years they've been dancing around questions as "Maybe you could join me" — and denial is no longer a tool. She does not take it for an answer.

Pain has made her brave.

"What should I feel? Sad? Scared?" She dared, chest growing and chin lifting. Unconsciously their bodies go farther, skins almost touching.

"Aren't you? I'm insane." He shrugs. "You were there. I could have killed you."

Oh, the knife is inside her stomach, moving little by little, tortuously slow. It's not a punch or a slap, but a chronic pain.

And a fighter still, through gritted teeth and agonizing thoughts, she quizzed. "Did you want to?" His gaze diverted, but she searched for it, even when inconvenient tears emerged within ocean eyes. They _do not_ fall. She was a frozen lake in the coldest, loneliest winter, while he's the Pacific, violent because of the wind so mercilessly to whatever it comes in sight. "Did you, House? Do you like beating women?" He has shaken his head — not to the questions, but the words, shutting down as she continues: "Do you like beating children? Do you get off on that?—"

At the death of her words, he stepped away and gripped the desk behind them; before he could hold _her_.

And she's only pushing it because she needs to get that outrageous version of him out of her head for good. She's confirming what she already knew, but wasn't allowed to believe.

It's a crime of passion, what they have always done. In the mix, the aggressor and the victim are not detached. Because if he was trying to hurt her, the main reason was the need for pain himself. It's fucked up. It's inexcusable.

It's comprehensible.

(at least between them)

Both panting loudly, puffs of air thunders through the empty auditorium by the moment they hear:

It's a silent voice in comparison, standing at the end of the stairs.

"Dr. House." Professor Muller pronounces. "Your class has ended fifteen minutes ago."

Wide eyed are the professor and his group of students watching them from the entrance.

* * *

The legend says you can't always get what you want.

But Lisa Cuddy desired to.

The first accomplishment of many amounted day by day at her list, was leaving her house to pursue the start of her career in medicine, despite all of her family distrust — and possible disapproval. She worked hard for it, stood strong.

It was the breath of fresh air to a _modus operanti._

One of those conquests — somewhere in between — was in the form of a fourth-year medical student college star, with unmerciful eyes and an abnormal fluency in brutal sarcasm. The dominatrix part of her aimed, in simple terms, to turn his world _upside down_.

Sitting across from him at that table, the afternoon sun ever so lightly dancing across his face, Lisa wished to have failed herself just this time. Just this time, she wouldn't mind not having changed House's structures in his core — a dream as an undergrad turning out to be a subconscious revenge in the unexpected future.

It was an easy task to do, ultimately:

Give.

And take it back.

He ungraciously bites his sandwich, full ten minutes passing as if she wasn't even there. They're receiving odd looks from students and co-workers like they're showing any sort of action.

But they're not even _staring_.

It remains like that by the time House talks (chewing the stupid food). "You don't miss me."

Her eyebrows go up in a second and after seeing her responsive expression, the analysis gets a sequel. "You miss the conflict. Like back in there, what you really wanted was a fight. You miss craziness for the challenge of fixing it. At the end of the day, you just miss the challenge."

"_Oh my God_. Thank you for the insight. I'll think I'll just go now, high on craziness." She mutters sarcastically.

It's the first time he actually looks at her.

She's so incredibly beautiful that he finds it difficult to move past that thought.

Her face is not subtle — it's a rare beauty, with marked features and defective for boring eyes. The conjecture of her physical — lips and nose, unsettling contrasts of colors, breast and legs (Jesus Fucking Christ, her legs!): He met her as a shadow of this woman, without ever thinking she could possibly be better.

History has proven him wrong each time.

Well, his gaze was probably freaky and unsettling, he just realizes, as a moron student whistles and cheers:

"_You go, House!_"

A murderous look from the professor was enough to kill the laughter from the group of kids. Cuddy just settles on rubbing her nose and looking around.

She felt like a high school girl prevented to _giggle_.

"They're idiots." House mumbles. Every part of his body brusque, tense, retreated. As if at any moment something might shoot him down. Adding to that, his face is colored with the darkest shade of crimson.

"I'm sorry again. For the girl. She just pissed me off."

A mere noticeable smirk is all he gives.

Then is uncomfortable silence.

Again.

* * *

Dear readers. Currently I'm living on caffeine, so excuse any errors. And please give me your opinion, because - ahem, besides making me incredibly happy - , it'll help me decide how to end the next one. Hang in there! As always, thank you for reading.


End file.
